


Foolish Heart

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: You Drove Me Wild [8]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Finwian dramamonsters, It is not fun to date Fëanor's children, M/M, Post coital, References to desk sex and other scandalous acts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1911270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingon seeks a midnight snack and gets more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foolish Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Глупое сердце](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7857739) by [rio_abajo_rio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rio_abajo_rio/pseuds/rio_abajo_rio)



“I’m hungry.” Findekáno nudged Maitimo with a toe. “Hey. Are you awake?”

“Mm.” Maitimo was sprawled on his stomach, his long, naked body stretched across the bed. He had his head buried in his arms, and he exuded exhausted pleasure. He didn’t seem inclined to move.

Findekáno felt a certain surge of self-satisfaction at this, but poked at his cousin again. “Maitimo.”

Maitimo groaned. “What is it, Finno?” He rolled onto his side, wincing slightly. “You can’t possibly want to go again. I’m not sure I’m even capable of it.”

Findekáno grinned, definitely smug now, but shook his head. “I was going to let you recover for a while first.”

“Then why on Arda are you still awake?”

“I’m hungry,” said Findekáno, patiently. “And I believe eating is a key component to recovering from vigorous physical activity. Such as, for example, the thing with the ropes and the tin of sword grease. Or when I had you over the desk and we broke that chair.”

Maitimo raised helpless eyes to the desk in question. Findekáno felt a certain amount of guilt as they both regarded the smashed chair, spilled ink, and ruined paperwork. The guilt was quickly eclipsed by the memory of bending Maitimo over the desk, his long hair trailing across the dark wood, his gasps and pleas for more…

Findekáno swallowed his triumphant smile, and said, instead, “Anyway. I’ve rather worked up an appetite.”

Maitimo buried his face in the pillow. “Have I told you you’re insatiable?”

“Not in this particular context, no, but you have applied that word to me in the past.” Findekáno crossed his arms behind his head, leaning back against the headboard, and gazed affectionately down at Maitimo’s tousled head.

“You’ve done me in, Findekáno,” came Maitimo’s muffled voice. “Go to sleep.”

“Don’t act so aggrieved,” said Findekáno, playing with a strand of Maitimo’s hair. “Consider it just retribution for all the times you’ve left me completely incapacitated. And often, walking funny. Like that time we snuck into your father’s studio, or that morning in the gardens, when we ruined my mother’s honeysuckle, or – ”

“Hush,” said Maitimo. “You monster. How are you still awake and talking? We have to be up in a matter of hours.”

Findekáno hummed unconcernedly. “I’m not tired. I’m hungry.” He absently dragged his fingers through the long, red fall of Maitimo’s hair. Maitimo gave a low sigh of pleasure, and Findekáno smiled. Soon, Maitimo’s body relaxed into sleep beneath the brush of Findekáno’s fingers, and Findekáno realized ruefully that he’d effectively lost a conscious companion.

Oh well. Maitimo didn’t get nearly enough sleep as it was; he’d let him sleep on until morning.

But in the meantime…

Still wide-awake, Findekáno swung himself lightly from the bed, twitching the sheet to cover Maitimo’s nakedness. He extinguished all but one candle, and tugged on the first pair of breeches he could find in the tangle of clothes on the floor – they were probably his, as they weren’t inches too long in the leg. Shooting a fond glance over his shoulder at his sleeping cousin, he slipped quietly out the door.

Making his way on light feet down the hall, and then to the stairs, Findekáno kept an ear cocked for any sound from the household. But even in the eccentric, late-waking house of Fëanaro, all seemed quiet and dark as Findekáno tiptoed into the pantry, intent on a snack.

He’d just discovered a basket of fresh fruit, and was starting to bite enthusiastically into a golden pear, when a voice came from the darkness.

“Findekáno.”

Findekáno jumped, nearly dropping the pear, and spun quickly, brandishing the fruit knife like a sword.

His uncle, dressed only in the rough clothes he wore in the forge, stepped from the darkness into a shaft of silver light from the open window, his dark head tilted to one side.

“Whatever are you doing up so late, nephew?”

Findekáno resisted the urge to hide the pear behind his back like a guilty child, instead placing it carefully on the counter and smiling at his uncle, trying not to feel too self-conscious of his half-dressed state.

“I found myself hungry and came to find a late-night bite to eat,” he said, lifting his eyes to Fëanaro’s, and trying not to blink in the intensity of that gaze. “Apologies if I woke you, Uncle.”

“You did not wake me,” said Fëanaro. “I have not been sleeping overmuch, of late. And when I heard footsteps,” he shrugged, eloquently, “I came to see which of my sons was stealing into the kitchens this time.”

“And instead you found a nephew,” said Findekáno, trying to make light. “Again, my apologies for rousing you. I will go back – ”

“To Nelyafinwë’s room,” said Fëanaro quietly.

Findekáno swallowed, and nodded. “I was – our conversation ran late, this night, and Maitimo suggested I spend the night rather than make my way back to my own house at such an hour.”

“Yes,” said Fëanaro, his eyes never leaving Findekáno’s face. “He is most accommodating, my eldest son.”

“He is,” said Findekáno, helplessly.

“You have been spending a great deal of time here.”

“I – ” Findekáno cursed his inability to dissemble with the skill of his cousins. What he wouldn’t give for Maitimo’s impenetrable mask, or for Findaráto’s easy diplomacy! “I have grown up spending much time with your sons, and Maitimo is my best friend. I have come to feel as at home here as in my own father’s house.”

This was clearly the wrong thing to say, as Fëanaro’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward. “As at home as at your father’s house - I see.”

“I – ” Findekáno floundered again, cursing his clumsiness, and not at all sure why his uncle was watching him with such suspicion and dislike. “I am sorry if I presume upon your hospitality, Uncle. Sir. I mean only that – ”

“You and Nelyafinwë are very close,” said Fëanaro sharply. “Closer, indeed, than your father and I. An interesting circumstance, is it not?”

“How do you figure, sir?” said Findekáno, at sea.

Fëanaro laughed, and Findekáno shivered. “There is no love lost between me and Nolofinwë,” he said, drawing closer. “And yet his eldest son is found more often at my house than his own, holding close council with _my_ eldest son. Why is that, I wonder?”

Findekáno didn’t answer, hoping the question was rhetorical, because otherwise, he would have to reply, “Because he’s screwing my brains out, sir, and also, I’m hopelessly in love with him.”

“What do you hope to achieve with my son’s friendship?” The question came like a whip crack, and Findekáno took a step back, knocking into the counter.

“What?”

“What do you hope to achieve, son of Nolofinwë?” asked Fëanaro, his eyes eerily opaque, and somehow quite mad in the shadows. “Why do you frequent my house, dog the steps of my son, creep my hallways late at night?”

Findekáno braced himself against the counter, panic rising. “Uncle – ”

“Do not call me that!” Fëanaro snapped, drawing so close that Findekáno found himself leaning back over the counter. “Why has your father sent you here? What do you hope to gain?”

Findekáno gaped, quite at a loss. “N- Nothing, sir, I only – ”

“Liar,” said Fëanaro quietly. “When did your father first send you to spy on me? When did he first set you to learn my secrets from my sons?”

“Never!” cried Findekáno, horrified. “I never – _He_ never – I am only – ”

“Liar,” spat Fëanaro again. “I do not tolerate spies in my household, boy.” His strong, clever fingers had curled into fists at his sides, and Findekáno shrank back against the counter, the fruit knife clattering to the floor.

“Atar!”

Maitimo stood framed in the doorway, his hair a halo around his head, his face white. “What is going on?”

“I was just ordering your cousin from this house,” said Fëanaro, his voice deadly soft.

Maitimo put a hand to the doorframe, looking as though someone had just delivered a deathly blow. “You – why?”

“I shall have no son of Nolofinwë acting as spy and errand boy between our houses,” said Fëanaro coldly. “Say your goodbyes, Nelyafinwë. Findekáno was just leaving.”

Numbly, Findekáno turned and left the kitchen, saying not a word to his uncle and brushing past Maitimo, who was ghostly white.

Maitimo caught him at the front door, grabbing his elbow and whispering, “Finno, what happened?”

“Your father happened,” spat Findekáno, and he was shaking slightly now. “And he accused me of being a pawn of my father, sent to spy on him, through you. And to think I feared he just suspected me of bedding you!”

“He – what?” Maitimo dropped Findekáno’s arm and reeled back. “He thinks you are a spy?”

“Do you think so as well, Maitimo?” asked Findekáno, bitterly. “Do you think my friendship is feigned, that I might bring tales back to my scheming father?”

“Of course not,” said Maitimo, but he looked distracted. “Findekáno – ”

“Is he mad?" whispered Findekáno, looking up at him. “Maitimo – what is wrong with your father? Why would he – ”

“Don’t,” said Maitimo sharply. “He is but cautious. He has learned not to trust too easily.”

“He is paranoid,” said Findekáno heatedly. “Paranoid, mad, to think that I – ”

“I will not have you speak ill of my father,” said Maitimo, and Findekáno fell back at the sudden coldness in his voice.

“Maitimo – how can you defend him? He just threw me from your house as a spy!”

“Perhaps it is best that you go,” said Maitimo, and his grey eyes – his father’s eyes, thought Findekáno, despairingly – were unreadable.

Findekáno reached out for him then, beseeching. “ _Please_ , Maitimo.”

“I can send you your things tomorrow,” said Maitimo tonelessly. “The walk to your father’s house is short enough.”

A sense of anger and ill use, previously shrouded in the shock and hurt of Fëanaro’s accusations and Maitimo’s dismissal, swelled within him. “So you will send me home from your bed, half-naked, all for your father’s warped sense of – ”

“You do not understand,” said Maitimo, cutting him off. “You have no idea…”

“You are right,” snapped Findekáno. “I do not understand. Explain it to me, by all means!”

“Keep your voice down,” said Maitimo tightly. “My father must, at all costs, know that he can trust me.”  
  
“You cannot think – Maitimo, you _know_ I am no spy! If you are so afraid he doesn’t trust you, why don’t you tell him the truth? Surely the truth can be no worse than what he suspects of me. Tell him that I am _not_ carrying stories to my father, and that the reason I spend my nights with you is not because I am a spy but because I am your lover, and we – ”

“No,” said Maitimo brusquely, his eyes flickering upward to see if any lights were coming on at the top of the house. “That is not an option. I have told you before… We have been reckless, and foolish, to think – ”

“Foolish!” Findekáno laughed wildly. “Aye, maybe I am foolish, but I am not going to let you cast me out like this. Valar, not an hour ago we were – ” His voice caught, and Maitimo looked away.

“Look at me,” Findekáno begged. “Why are you doing this?” He reached out for Maitimo, who stepped back. “I _love_ you, Maitimo.”

“You should go,” repeated Maitimo, turning away.

The door thudded shut behind him, and Findekáno was left alone on the step, utterly lost.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. Poor Fingon. Everyone knows that skulking half dressed around your boyfriend's parents' house is a recipe for disaster. And this is Fëanor we're talking about, so the disaster potential is just that much higher.  
> 1\. This started fun and got sad, without me really intending it.


End file.
